


The All-Conquering God

by CassieIngaben



Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:08:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25191448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassieIngaben/pseuds/CassieIngaben
Summary: Valentine's Day. Chicago-style.
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	The All-Conquering God

The darkness was heavy and it stank of thick organic smells: sweat, urine, blood. Even the presence of Doyle's warm body next to his was not doing anything to shield him from the dank coldness that had seeped into his very bones. Doyle shifted, shivering, trying to huddle closer in the same blind drive for warmth that had pushed Bodie to wrap himself around his unconscious mate.

Bodie tightened his hold fractionally, and whispered: "Ray? You awake?"

The answer was a shudder and a hoarse croak: "Yeah. What happened?"

"Not much. I think you must have been out for a couple of hours. Feeling any better?"

"It doesn't hurt anymore, but I'm fucking cold."

"Yeah, I know. Me, too."

A lengthy silence followed, the only sound their wheezing breaths, and sometimes the shuffle of a trembling arm or leg. 

Bodie could feel more than hear Doyle's fast, thready heartbeat; he tried to concentrate on the areas of warmth where their bodies touched, fight against the cold and the pain, and the million useless stray thoughts crowding his mind. 

When Doyle spoke again his voice was very low, but Bodie clearly heard it echo through his own body: "D' you think they are gonna come soon?"

Bodie shrugged, his voice equally low: "They said when the day comes — like they did with Susan."

"I think it must be midnight?"

"More like three."

Doyle took a deep breath, his body pushing against Bodie's a bit more. "We aren't gonna make it this time."

"Don't say it!" Bodie snapped automatically.

Doyle responded with a curiously resigned note of anger in his voice: "Come on Bodie, you know we are dead this time. They'll kill us like they did with Susan: it's over." 

Bodie pursed his lips but didn't reply. What could he say? Doyle was right, even if he shouldn't have said it aloud. Miracles don't happen, and only a bloody miracle could save them this time. He was even past the shock of realizing that they had actually given up. Them, giving up. Yet they had tried: they had tried, and they had failed. They had been treated to the sight of Susan's death as a result, and now it was their turn. They both knew it was the way they would go, sooner or later — he would have chosen something faster, more sudden, but the end result was the same. They were dead. He was a dead man and he was huddling close to another dead man, and the warmth of their combined body heat was just a temporary illusion, a trick of time. The warmth was already growing dimmer, not good enough for the cold enveloping them: and soon an even colder embrace would swallow them, cold in the earth, and the snow piled high…

Doyle adjusted his hold on Bodie's midriff, squeezing gently. "Bodie?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry, Bodie."

"No regrets. You know that."

"Not one?" 

Bodie sighed. What was the point, anyway? But then, what was the point in NOT saying it, either? Just as the silence was becoming his only answer, he blurted it out: "One thing."

His heart started to beat violently, and Doyle's body responded to it — just the slightest stiffening, the indrawn breath, the hesitation before asking: "What?" His breath was warm and damp on Bodie's cheek. 

"This." Trembling, and not just from the cold, Bodie squeezed the other man against him, and blindly sought out Doyle's lips with his. He first found a stubbled cheek, then parched lips, opening with a sigh, a shock of wet hot tongue, bitter metallic taste mingling with his equally stale mouth, and it was so intense that he thought he would scream with the way the rush of excitement went to his groin and through his brain. Doyle was making strangled noises deep in his throat, his long fingers clawing at Bodie's flesh through the tatters of his clothes. The frenzy communicated itself to the rest of their bodies, and they tussled on the concrete floor, cold-numbed flesh no longer caring about the grating pebbly unevenness under them. 

Doyle eventually sprawled on top of Bodie, whose legs opened to cradle him, grabbing Doyle's hips tightly as he desperately pushed and shoved their groins together. Bodie heard himself make a high-pitched keening wail, but it was like he was hearing himself from under water or at a great distance — while curiously Doyle's short, sharp grunting noises seemed to come from much closer. 

Bodie was still very cold and he hurt and he was tired and scared, but it was like it was all happening to someone else, and it was all underlaid with an almost unbearable pleasure, terrifying in its intensity, and more painful than the rest of the other sensations put together. It was all too short, and eternally long — above him Doyle was thrusting madly and then it all went blank in fast, painful orgasm. 

* * *

"Bodie? Bodie!"

He stirred. How long had it been? Surely not much more than a few minutes, and that included both the sex and his passing out.

Doyle was still slumped on top of him, heavy and shivering, but not as tense; his voice was mellow and very close. Bodie took a deep breath, moved his arms around Doyle again — his legs were still cradling their lower bodies together.

"Bodie, why did it take you so long?" It was just a warm, low whisper, resignation and tiredness colouring it slightly.

"I was scared." 

"I know. Me, too. But not now."

"No."

"When they come take us —"

"Yes?"

"I am not sure this makes it worse, or better, but —"

"Don't say it, Doyle. Don't say anything." 

Doyle shifted his head so that his face was now touching Bodie's. It was wet. Bodie started to make soft, shushing noises, as if to soothe a child, stopping only when his nose got so blocked out with fluids that he had to breathe through his mouth. Doyle's hand was threading through his hair, smoothing it back, patting his head clumsily, tremblingly.

Light was starting to seep through the tiny window, and Doyle's blurring features started to appear in Bodie's visual field — face putty-coloured and pinched, matted limp hair sticking out all over. Bodie stared as hard as possible, trying to take in those features and impress them in his mind. 

The door slammed open and a group of their captors walked in. Silently, quickly, Bodie and Doyle were grabbed and manhandled through the door and then through a series of corridors and stairs, and finally into a smelly, walled yard cluttered with assorted junk.

It was even colder outside, and dawn was transmuting into a clear, frosty winter morning. The sun shone pale and bright like a metallic mirror, and the air was brittle, carrying the hoarse cries of faraway crows.

They pushed Bodie and Doyle face against the far wall, ruthlessly quashing their attempts at resistance, guns at the ready and trained on them. They were taking no chances. The man who had led their interrogation briefly addressed them: "Don't try anything funny, you two. It's useless and you know it." He pushed the muzzle of his gun at the nape of Bodie's neck, another thug copied him on Doyle. The interrogator went on, seemingly addressing his companion in crime: "It's kinda ironic, eh? You know what the date is today?" 

The other thug grunted interrogatively, and the interrogator went on, obviously amused: "It's February 14. I can already see the headlines: 'Chicago-style CI5 Valentine’s Day Massacre'. " 

Bodie stirred from the numbness that had enveloped him so far: he turned his head towards his executioners, gaze cold and close, then he slowly stepped towards Doyle and embraced him tightly — Doyle responding jerkingly, eyes tightly closed against Bodie's shoulder.

The interrogator's brows lifted and then he chuckled: "Well, well, well… As they say, love conquers all. Happy Valentine, CI5."

He pulled the trigger; almost simultaneously the other thug's shot echoed in the clear morning, the two explosions rising high in the air to mingle with the loud cawing overhead.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally written in 2001 and published in the zine Roses and Lavender 6.


End file.
